Two of Swords
by penknife1
Summary: Elizabeth's learning. WillxElizabeth, set shortly before DMC.


The flagstones are cool under Elizabeth's bare feet, and the sword is heavy in her hand. She can feel the ache in her wrist and in a sharp line down her arm from shoulder to elbow. She has no intention of complaining.

The courtyard is nothing but an empty space between shops where no one has reason to come this early. Will was clever to suggest it. It's a public place, so there's no question of damage to her reputation. It's a quiet place, so they're unlikely to be seen.

"Turn your wrist," Will says. He comes up behind her and puts his hand over hers. She can feel his warmth against her back in the morning chill.

She lets him turn her wrist. "Like that?"

"Like that," Will says. He moves her hand through the same positions slowly, _prime, seconde, tierce, quarte_. Back and forth like the measured figures of a dance. The steel of the sword blade catches the light of the morning sun.

His hand on hers is warm. It would be easy to turn into the curve of his arm and stretch up to kiss him, but instead she only presses her hand against his and tightens her fingers around the sword's cool grip.

"Show me something new," Elizabeth says.

Will shakes his head. "You're a demanding pupil."

"There's a lot to learn." She does turn, then, just a bit, to look up at Will. She can see the pulse beating in his throat, just beneath the skin, and wonders how it would feel to brush her fingers there, or her lips.

There's a moment when Will is very still, and then he steps away from her and smiles crookedly. "All right, then," he says, and draws his own sword. He blunts the tip with a bit of cork and tosses one to her to do the same.

She's very aware as she raises her blade that this is still a deadly weapon. If Will thrust with all his strength, she would end up bleeding. She tries not to examine that thought too closely. This is about swordfighting. She steps back a little, trying to widen the distance between her and the point.

"No footwork yet," Will says. "Parry." He straightens his arm slowly, extending the blade out toward her, and she makes the simple parry, meeting the weak part of his blade with the strong part of her own, shielding her heart.

"Good," he says, and draws back. This time the blade flicks out toward her shoulder, and she bats it away. "Good," he says again, and makes another thrust for her heart.

They fall into an easy rhythm of attack and parry, blade ringing on blade. Elizabeth resists the urge to push a wayward strand of hair out of her face. Her wrist is beginning to ache fiercely, but she's starting to get the feel of this.

"Now, parry and riposte," Will says. He demonstrates parrying back into guard against an invisible attack and then moves smoothly into an extension, his arm and blade one long line from his shoulder toward an imagined heart. "When they've just made a move, they're vulnerable. You should never waste an opportunity."

"I see." He comes at her slowly, and she parries the blade and then thrusts at his chest. He meets her sword with his own.

"Good." This is a new rhythm. Attack, parry, riposte, parry. Back and forth. She watches his face as much as the blade. There's a light in his eyes when he fences that she likes. He's watching her face, too, and she wonders what he sees.

"If we didn't keep stopping ..."

"We don't have to keep stopping," Will says. Parry, riposte, parry, riposte. Their blades meet and part and meet again. The sun is starting to heat the flagstones under her feet, now, and she can feel sweat starting to bead at the small of her back.

She's not sure how to bring the rhythm to some kind of consummation. "How do we ever stop?"

Will raises his eyebrows in a kind of shrug, and his blade dips under and around hers; suddenly it is pointing at her throat.

"Oh," she says. She taps at it ineffectively with her own, but she can't deny that she would be in difficulty at this point. The piece of cork doesn't really make her feel better.

She lowers her blade. "Show me that."

"You can't learn everything in a morning," Will says, but he demonstrates more slowly, dipping his blade in a wide circle and into a high line.

"It's been several mornings," she says.

"Oh, well. That's different."

"Hmph." She tries to duplicate the move, although the tip of her blade refuses to trace a neat circle. "How long did it take you to learn?"

"My master started teaching me when I was first apprenticed. He was a soldier once. Which might have something to do with why he drinks." Will shrugs. "He said I ought to understand how to use what he sets out to make."

"So, years," Elizabeth says, feeling perversely as though she's wasted time. She never knew she wanted to learn this, or at least she never knew she could. She's starting to wonder what other doors she's never tried to open.

"You're learning," Will says. "Try the disengage."

He extends his blade toward her, and she parries and dips her blade, bringing the point around in a tight circle and thrusting it toward his throat.

He lets her hit, the cork-tipped point pressing hard against his neck where the pulse beats. She holds the position, although her shoulder aches. If she thrust with her weight behind it she could make him bleed. It's a new feeling.

"Good," he says, softly. She lowers her arm and he takes a step forward, closing the distance between them. She wants to kiss him, but the blade is still between them, and she's not sure how to get it out of the way without drawing blood.

He pulls back to let her lower the blade. "I should go," he says, looking at the sun slanting over the rooftop. "Before anyone misses me."

"I'll practice," Elizabeth says, and hands him her sword, though her fingers want to curl around it even after it's no longer there.


End file.
